


A Thousand Apologies

by LaBelleetlaloup



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-28 18:13:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3864796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaBelleetlaloup/pseuds/LaBelleetlaloup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John both faints and punches Sherlock in the face when he returns three years after the Reichenbach Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Apologies

John was expecting Mary to arrive at any moment, so when he heard Mrs. Hudson answer the door, he did not really hear her reaction. When it took several moments before the footsteps reached the stairs, he assumed without really questioning it that Mary and Mrs. Hudson were merely catching up. He continued tidying up a bit, putting things in boxes. For some reason, nothing ever seemed to stay clean. It was as though someone went behind him, taking things back out from where he had put them up. It was never as bad as when he still lived there with Sherlock, but cups and saucers and odds and ends often showed up in places he had no reasonable explanation for them being. His therapist claimed it was him moving things around and repressing the memories because it reminded him of the chaos Sherlock had brought to his life. John highly doubted that. He was depressed, not delusional. He was sorry for the reason he and Mary were here. They were going to start clearing things out so Mrs. Hudson could rent it out. John would be officially “moved in” with Mary as of moving his last boxes later that day. He had not been able to take living in the empty flat. Sherlock took up so much space, with his experiments and violin racket and his tempers… John caught himself. Sherlock had taken up so much space. He was dead. There was no use continuously referring to him in the present tense. He was never coming back. John sighed, hurriedly trying to smile as he heard the door open. It did no good to worry Mary that he was sad about moving in with her instead of his merely being sad about having to officially close the chapter of his life Sherlock had written all but completely by himself.

“Mary, dear,” he greeted as he turned. Instead of his well-dressed lover, he found a scrounge-y, tall, dark haired man with wild curls, sharp eyes and a scarf tied around his neck. “Who are you?” John demanded, knowing that despite the resemblance, it was not the man he so desperately wished it was. He reached for his gun behind him in a hidden drawer of the table.

“John,” the taller man breathed, “Have you really already forgotten me?” The voice had not changed. It was pained, a little rough with emotion, but John would still know it anywhere. Sherlock was standing in front of him. His hand faltered on his gun, not yet taking it out.

“Sherlock?” he was half-certain he was dreaming and half-delirious with joy, “It… It can’t be. You’re dead. I saw you. I buried you. God, I wish I wasn’t dreaming right now.”

“You aren’t dreaming,” Sherlock chuckled, crossing the room and gently squeezing John’s shoulder. It was just enough to make the joint tense up around the scar. Only Sherlock or a well-trained physician would know how to do that, and only Sherlock would know where. John let go of his gun and threw his arms around Sherlock, laughing deliriously. His vision began to swim, though, but he was not concerned. He still half-believed he was dreaming and had imagined the twinge. Everything went black as he felt himself go a little weak. He had not passed out cold like this since the war.

When he woke, Sherlock was somewhat cleaned up, having half-shaved and put clean clothes on, and Mary was peering over his shoulder. She was leaning around Sherlock. She saw him. Sherlock was truly alive. It was not a dream or a delusion. John grinned.

“My dear John,” Sherlock smiled gently down at him, “I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea you would be so affected.” John’s smile faltered a little as Sherlock spoke and the pain of those three long and terrible years of separation and mourning came flooding back. The arse had faked his death and not even told John about it. He claimed John was his only friend. John’s fist came back of its own accord and flew at Sherlock.

“You fucking arsehole,” he shouted, his fist connecting with Sherlock’s nose, “You were bloody dead!” He had forgotten completely about Mary’s presence and launched himself onto Sherlock, trying to get his fists in around Sherlock’s hands, which were valiantly covering his face. Sherlock was trying to push him off, but John was having none of it.

“John!” Mary and Mrs. Hudson snapped at him. John suddenly recalled himself and winced at the realization of the language he had used in front of the women. He levered himself off Sherlock’s torso and slowly stood, facing them.

“I apologize for my language. It was inappropriate,” he murmured. “Sherlock, you want a towel or a napkin for that nose?”

“Dowel,” Sherlock replied, choking a little as he held his nose up to try and staunch the blood-flow. John wandered into the kitchen and found a clean, red towel which he ambled back with and handed to Sherlock.

“So, you’re back, then?” he said, settling back down on the couch, favoring his leg. The limp had been back for almost the entire three years. He had tried a few hobbies that had helped temporarily, but nothing had cured him like Sherlock had. Sherlock nodded as best he could in response to John’s question.

“Good,” John nodded, “I suppose you’ve met Mary?” Sherlock nodded again. John repeated the motion. “Well, try to remember her name, would you? She is not Sarah.” Sherlock nodded, his lips curling into a smile under the towel. Mary looked at Mrs. Hudson in confusion. She was just beaming at Sherlock and John.

“Well boys, I suppose this means I don’t need to rent the flat out anymore. It will be nice to have interesting company again. I’ll be downstairs if you need me. I’ll bring up a cuppa and some biscuits I made. But just this once, I’m not your housekeeper.” She happily hurried down the stairs. John got up and put on his kettle as well. And that was that. Sherlock was back. Of course, telling everyone else involved more hysterics, but as far as John and Sherlock were concerned, everything was settled. All was right with the world again. 

John’s limp disappeared within hours.


End file.
